When snow lies on the hill?
When frost has spoil'd their moss beds
And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o're the plain
And drafts of dew they cannot sip
Till green leaves come again
Perhaps in small blue diving bells
They plunge beneath the waves
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in coral caves
Perhaps in red vesuvius carousal they maintain,
And cheer their little spirits up
Till green leaves come again!
Paul Voorham
